“I mean,” I try to clarify, “this is a business arrangement. You’re providing a service, and I want to make sure you’re fairly compensated.”
“A service,” she repeats, her voice flat.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, you’re right. This is a service I’m providing. A business transaction.” She stands up from the bench, suddenly agitated. “Fine. Five million dollars. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Freya, please don’t be upset. I’m trying to make this fair for you.”
“Fair?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Nothing about this is fair, Ben. Nothing about any of this has ever been fair.”
“What do you mean?”
For a moment, I think she’s going to say something important, something that might change everything between us. But then she shakes her head and sits back down.
“Nothing. I mean nothing.” She takes a deep breath. “If you want to give me five million dollars to marry you, then fine. I accept.”
“It’s not about marrying me. It’s about recognizing what this costs you. Your time, your energy, your privacy. The way people look at you now, the attention you never asked for.”
“The attention that got me the gallery exhibition?”
“That’s different. That’s your talent being recognized.”
“Because of my association with you.”
“Because someone saw your work and knew it was extraordinary.”
We’re talking in circles, and I can feel the conversation slipping away from what I actually want to say. Which is that I feel guilty about involving her in this charade, that I hate seeing her become distant and guarded, that I wish I could go back and make different choices that wouldn’t have put us in this position.
“Look,” I say finally, “I just want to make sure you know how much I appreciate what you’re doing. Five million dollars seems like a small price to pay for saving my entire business.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Saving your business?”
“The Red Dawson deal alone will transform everything. But beyond that, the change in my public image, the way people see me now… it’s already opening doors I didn’t even know existed.”
Freya nods, but she’s looking out at the garden instead of at me. “Good. I’m glad it’s working out for you.”
“It’s working out for both of us. Your art career is taking off, you’ll have financial security, and you’ll be able to pursue your passion full-time.”
“Right. Win-win situation.”
But she doesn’t sound like she feels like she’s winning anything. She sounds exhausted and resigned, like someone who’s agreed to something she regrets but feels too obligated to back out of.
“Freya, are you okay? You seem different lately.”
“Different how?”
“Distant. Like you’re going through the motions, but your heart isn’t in it anymore.”
She finally looks at me, and there’s something in her expression that makes my chest tight. “My heart was never supposed to be in it, remember? That was the whole point.”
“I know, but?—”
“No feelings, right? That was our rule.”
“Right.”
No feelings.
